Six Months Off...

Grab your bikini, quick!

2007-10-01T06:05:59Z

Summer at last! Poor rain-soaked England rallied the troops and finally managed to turn on the sun, at least for a week or so. So we hit the beach. Driving south to Swanage in Dorset, we were joined on the motorway by literally thousands of like-minded sunseekers, creating the mother of all traffic jams and turning a two-hour drive into a five hour crawl of pain. Still, we all put on our best smiles as the sun had got his hat on and was coming out to play, as the song goes. Coming from Australia, I’ve seen my fair share of packed beaches. I grew up at Cottesloe Beach in W.A. and now Sydney’s Bondi is my local. Never have I seen a beach so busy. Ne-ver. There were youngies and oldies, fatties and skinny-ies, babies, families, trendies… you name it, they were there turning an unflattering shade of lobster. And there were beach balls, tents, mats, towels, windbreaks, kites, boats, huts, blow-up animals, liloes and even flagpoles (yep, two separate, forward-thinking beachgoers had brought their own flapoles so their mates could track them down). It was a rainbow of colourful chaos, like a clown had thrown up.
Our visit coincided with the annual beer festival in nearby Studland (no, I’m not making that name up), at the ye-olde Bankes’ Arms. With over 200 different beers and 30 ciders all in one tent, we could see we’d be there a while. Throw in some live music, a barbeque and a gorgeous sea view, and a fine afternoon-that-became-evening was had by all.
We did all the English-beachy things like getting sunburnt, eating breaded scampi with chips laced with vinegar, licking clotted-cream ice creams on the pier, fighting for our place on the sand and collapsing each evening with a (warm) ale.
The day we left, it rained, and the grey skies kept the temperature to a minimum. Well, I guess that was the English summer over for another year.

Grab your bikini, quick! remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Yet Moor adventures...

2007-10-01T06:02:51Z

Driving south from Scotland, we were able to get a real feel for the English countyside. As we swept past open fields and wound down narrow lanes (often right behind a tractor who was conveniently going exactly the same way), the sun came out and we were able to see England in all her summer glory. First stop was the epic Hadrian’s Wall and Housesteads roman fort, apparently built to keep the Scottish Barbarians at safe distance. Still (sort of) standing after all this time (close to 2000 years), they could show Multiplex a thing or two. Next, it was off to the Yorkshire Moors for a Bronte moment. And we were just in time to see the heather blooming, creating a deep purple carpet for miles around, and only adding to the brooding, windswept landscape the moors offer. We saw grouse scuttling through the scrub, pheasants fluttering out of our way, and literally hundreds of sheep with a death wish. Well, to be fair, it was kind of their paddock – they are free to roam wherever they want across the moors which, unfortunately for drivers, includes the road. Things they like to do on the road include:

- walk into the middle and stop abruptly, looking the other was
- sit on the very edge to eat the grass but appear as if they may wander into said road at any given moment
- rush straight across for no apparent reason as soon as they hear a car
- variations on above that cause a) heart attacks for driver and passenger, b) a seriously decreased life expectancy for them, judging from all the carnage displayed along our route.

Having made it to a settlement without bloodshed, we decided not to push out luck by continuing the drive. Instead, we had two highly amusing and slightly odd nights in the area. The first was in an old blacksmith’s forge, so ancient that is appears in the Domesday Book (11th century), and so petite that we couldn’t stand up straight downstairs without banging our heads. We thus appeared as two young hunchbacks limping about any time we wanted to go in and out. The second said on the brochure, “a romantic farm stay in the heart of the moors”. Brilliant. We needed some romance after all that sheep-dodging. On checking in, we noticed a somewhat powerful odour but, too polite to mention, ignored it. Well, I ignored it for a few minutes until I decided to ask, “Err, what sort of farm is this exactly?” Response? “Pig”. Riiiiight. Nuff said. The smell, plus the squealing, was a little off-putting, but once we got over the initial shock, we (well, me, Mike is always well behaved) got on with it. I didn’t want to be the fly in the, um, oinkment. I mean, it was slightly unporktunate but we’d be bacon the real world soon enough. Needless to say, I took the ‘eggs only’ option at breakfast the next morning.

Yet Moor adventures... remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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We take the high road…

2007-09-26T09:48:45Z

The Scottish Highlands (or Heelans as the Scots pronounce it) are famous for lots of things, including but not limited to:
1. Whisky
2. Lots of old castles
3. The rugged beauty
4. Haggis
5. Heelan Coos (or Highland Cows)
6. Braveheart (although I think this is only to outsiders and it’s best not to mention Mel Gibson to any self-respecting Scotsman - uncool)

I am happy to say that we sampled, or at least viewed all these things, bar, obviously, blue-faced Braveheart who is long gone, I mean filming must have wrapped, what, ten years ago?
There are whisky distilleries everywhere, so if you like your tipple to take the hair off your chest, this is the place for you. (Unfortunately am too weak for this most fierce of bevvies and discovered am more a ‘Cardonnaaaay’ type gal).
The castles are breathtaking, and often in various stages of disrepair from, “needs the guttering done”, to “What? No roof is totally the new black”. So gorgeous.
Next, the rugged beauty of the place cannot be surpassed. The hills, the heather, the thistles, the open plains, the immense lochs must be seen to be believed. We pulled in for a picnic at Loch Ness for obvious reasons. It was, obviously, raining so we squatted under a tree and looked out for Nessie. No sign unfortunately, and the only monsters I encountered were huge swarms of Scottish midgies (apparently a hazard of travelling there in July) with only one wish: to bite as much of my exposed skin as humanly, or I suppose midgily, possible. Luckily, as it was typical Scottish summer weather – cold, rainy and a little bit miserable, the only bits of me sticking out were my face and my hands, keeping bites to a minimum. We even over-nighted in a super-cute B&B called Caledonian House in the Ness-side town of Fort Augustus in the hope that Nessie would appear in the wee hours, but to no avail. However, Mike did utilise this stop to sample “haggis, neeps and tatties” in a local Scottish restaurant. Which basically translates to sheep stomach, sweedes and potatoes served with oatcakes. Hmmm. I had local mussels instead – my stomach couldn’t stomach a stomach.
Then it was off to Kingussie, “Home of TV’s Monarch of the Glen”, to search out some Heelan Coos. You know, those, huge, hairy, golden-haired cows with big horns and kind face. We stayed in a fab B&B called Ruthven House, that was conveniently located next to a whole field full of Heelans. Aside from communing with the local wildlife, we went hiking, although our trek to the summit of Cairngorm Mountain was cut short when the weather closed in and the temperature dropped to around zero degrees. Unfun at the best of times, but especially without gloves and a beanie, so we quickly scarpered back down again to the base where it was a toasty 13.
I should also point out that I am, through my Mum’s family, a McPherson. Mum was one, my grandma is one and so on. So it was only right that I went in search of the “seat of the clan”, which is in Newtonmore, just five minutes away. There was even a McPherson museum there, dedicated to all the famous McPhersons. And yes, a picture and a letter from Elle were proudly displayed. Bizarrely, the man in charge of the museum knew my Australian-based family, and had been matey with my great, great uncle, a soldier in India. The world is just too small, right? The motto of our clan is “Touch not the cat without a glove”. Brilliant. I’d gone around all these years touching cats barehanded, unknowingly. Or was that touching cats that weren’t wearing paw-accessories? Well, whichever, I shall try to adhere to the motto.
After a week in the Highlands, we wound our way South, to the bright lights and big city of Edinburgh. We did all the predictably touristy things. Walked the Royal Mile, clambered about the castle, went to the pub, bought a tartan scarf, listened to a bagpipe player wearing a kilt, dashed in and out of the rain. And although we had a great time in Scotland’s capital and the pretty little border towns of Jedburgh, Kelso and Melrose we visited before driving back across the border, our hearts had been captured by the wild highlands. We would happily paint our faces blue and gallop across those plains any old time.

We take the high road… remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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"The pipes, the pipes are calling..."

2007-09-26T09:45:39Z

Entering Scotland from England via road is somewhat of an anticlimax. There’s no sign, no marker, although perhaps the weather got slightly worse, which was saying something. Snuggled up in my new ski jacket (yep, it may have been summer in the Northern Hemisphere but I had to run to an outdoor shop in Cumbria to stock up on woolly socks and a heavy-duty, wind- and rain-proof padded coat) I watched as grey, rain-soaked fields gave way to the industrial outskirts of Glasgow. After managing to negotiate peak-hour traffic in the rain and still stay married, our next task was to make it across the Firth of Clyde, a large inlet that separates Glasgow from the highlands. Unhelpfully, the big bridge was closed, with nothing but a small sign saying ‘Ferry this way’, plus an arrow pointing in the direction of the boats. About, ooh, and hour’s drive later, we made it to the car ferry landing, which was basically a small barge on a chain that putted back and forth across the water. Finally, we were in luck. The boat was about to leave and wasn’t quite full. Although safely on board we were more than a little shocked when this 10-minute trip cost us almost 20 pounds, which is more than 50 Aussie dollars. Still, we were on our way. Ach laddies.
Driving in Scotland is truly an experience to savour. The roads, even the minor ones, are well-sealed and safe. The scenery is breathtaking and you really do see so much from your car. A hugely different experience from whipping along the Autoroutes in France or Italy at 130 kilometres per hour, staring at a grey wall. Scottish driving is actually part of the fun, unbelievably.
After a quick night-stop in a charming and tiny town called Inverary, it was over the sea to Skye for us (thankfully that bridge was open and it was free!). Next challenge. The sun came out. It was warm. People were actually wearing T-shirts – I could hardly remember last time I saw a t-shirt all on its own. And it felt like the whole of Scotland and beyond had descended on Skye to rejoice in the “finally a little bit of summer” weather. Which would have been awesome if we’d pre-booked accommodation. As we were however homeless, we spent an increasingly frustrating day trying to find a bed. When, some time very late in the afternoon, we ran out of an old lady’s B&B who’d totally seen us coming and told us slyly we could have her spare room (literally, it was her spare room – 2 single beds, sharing HER bathroom with 6 other poor souls) for a mere 65 pounds (or over 160 bucks – “ I could stay at the Sydney Hilton for that” I cried in anguish) I lost my ladylike faculties and screeched at Mike, “Drive back to the mainland, we’re leaving, damn it” (although I might have said it a little more unprintably).
Thankfully, the Holiday Gods put their foot down at this, and miraculously we spotted a sweet little motel in the island’s suburb of Broadford, home of Drambuie. “Excellent”, we thought, “A bed, and hard liquor, just the thing”. Two nights later, we were in love with Skye. It’s a beautiful, windswept place with fierce-looking mountains, mysterious lochs, rolling green fields, ruined castles and isolated, white-washed cottages dotting the landscape. Our highlight was stumbling across a sheepdog trial competition down a little back lane. Now, this may have been simply a country-Skye trial, but anyone would have believed it the Dog Olympics, such was the atmosphere, the concentration of the competitors, the excitement of the dogs, the size of the trophy. We were enraptured with these clever, clever animals, their patient owners, and the crazy sheep that were driven mercilessly through gates, around fences and into pens. Some fellow travellers, a carload of Americans, also found the festivities, but unluckily for them, got their people-carrier bogged in the field poor things. After the locals couldn’t budge the car, the driver had some kind of stress-induced tantrum even I would have been proud of and strode off into the middle of the competition ground screaming into his mobile phone that he “didn’t want to be stuck out in the middle of ‘Goddam’ nowhere for the rest of the day”, and to “make it a priority to send a guy out immediately”. Unfortunately, he scared the competing dog and spooked the sheep, got shouted at in thick Scottish accents by the locals, and had to end up standing stock still in the middle of the field pretending to be a tree, looking, umm, sheepish, for the next 10 minutes until the trial had finished. I’m not joking, he really took up the stance of a tree. Naturally, we didn’t laugh at his misfortune. We’d had too many travel-disasters of our own to feel superior by that late stage.

"The pipes, the pipes are calling..." remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Water world

2007-09-16T20:52:09Z

Drive around 7 hours north of London and you'll reach the Lake District. Home to the stately Lake Windemere, rolling green hills, England's highest mountains and the lodgings of a certain Ms Beatrix Potter. We set off one lovely English summer day (read rain, rain and more rain - this was The Weekend that South West England seriously flooded) and pulled into Windermere late Sunday afternoon. After negotiating more than our fair share of tourist coaches, stuffed Peter Rabbits and shops selling Kendal Mint Cake (more on that later), we reached our self-catering digs. Sure, they were also part flooded, but it added to the "we're all in this together, so grab a bucket and start bailing" vibe. Quite cosy really.
Four days goes remarkably fast when you're dodging rain storms long enough to dash up mountains, but I pride myself in saying that I embraced my Northern-English roots, not to mention a pair of rainproof trousers and a ski jacket (yes, I went to the shop and bought a ski jacket in England in the middle of 'summer'), and hiked up those hills like it was 100 degrees in the waterbag. As we were practically the only ones brave/stupid enough to be out tramping about, we saw lots of gorgeous sights - lambs frollicking in fields, cygnets bustling after Mummy Swan, even the lettuce patch left for Peter Rabbit in Beatrix Potter's own garden at Hill Top. Ooh, and I have to say, we stopped in for a refreshing ale in Beatrix's local boozer - a mere 10 steps from her front gate. She could totally have staggered home, no need for a cab. She must have loved the convenience, and what a perfect way to soothe the writers' block.
And I can proudly report that I climbed my first mountain. OK, so it wasn't exactly Everest, but it was called High Pike and was, well, very high. It was driving rain for the first half the way up, when I recall whinging to Mike, "Um, I'm really not having very much fun". He tried to shut me up with the aforementioned Kendal Mint Cake, a white, sugary, mint-flavoured mass used by Sir Edmund Hilary on climbing expeditions and native to the Lake District. Italy has pasta, France has croissants, the Lakes have Mint Cake. It tastes a bit like the middle of an After Eight, so it really is the least painful part of climbing up a mountain, quite pleasant really. Anyhoo, after quite a few hours of clambering, scrambling and moaning, I made it to the top, and it really was worth the effort. An amazing view of the whole district with no-one to share it with but Mike, a few curious sheep who probably couldn't believe a human wanted to go to all the effort to gatecrash their high-altitude paddock, and some bird of prey, circling the skies, most likely saying to eachother, "Damn, I really thought she was going to bite the dust a few miles back. There goes lunch".
After four days of hiking, climbing and dodging rain showers, we were completely exhausted and ready to curl up by the fire to read about pesky bunnies, silly geese, motherly hedgehogs and naughty little kittens. Thank goodness for the genius of Miss Potter - a balm to young and old alike.

I did it! Me at the top of High Pike

Water world remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Fun on the Fragrant Isle

2007-09-16T19:59:30Z

Corsica is brilliant for so many reasons (none of which include the ferry crossing you’ll be pleased to note). Here are a few of the highlights:
1. The food. Mmmmm. Sheeps-milk cheese, charcuterie of all kinds (yep, even donkey), chestnut-flour beer and cakes, great (and cheap) rose, good coffee…
2. The scenery. One minute you’re in a cute little Mediterranean port like Calvi, the next you come across a quaint mountain hamlet. You can swim in clear, deep rivers or pure-white sandy beaches. You can hike through the macqui (sweet-scented bushland – it smells like herbs), or stroll through picturesque little seaside villages. There truly is something for all tastes.
3. The ease. Corsica is relatively small, and driving around it is easy-peasy. Well, when you get used to the crazy Corsican driving. The island is very close to both Italy and France…when it comes to road tactics, need I say more? However, once you’ve accepted the fact that any number plate ending with a 2A or 2B will drive right up your, um, botty, until a) you pull over or b) they hoon past you on a blind corner on the wrong side of the road, you’re laughing. The road surfaces are amazingly sound, most are safe and they’re all quite fast, making seeing a lot of the island in a short time entirely possible.
4. The people. Corsicans are proud of their island and rightly so. There is a very strong sense of patriotism – they are part of France, but distinctly separate and always Corsican first. The island has a troubled past but no animosity is directed at tourists and we felt perfectly welcome. There is a local language, but the people speak French to tourists (you may struggle if you didn’t know any at all, we didn’t come across a lot of English speakers), albeit with a strong Italian accent which makes it sound even more exotic.
5. The accommodation. Cheap, clean, fab. What more could you want?
Our highlight? A crazy-cool boat trip (yes, I managed to strap on my sea-legs again!) from Tiuccia around Les Calanches (huge red-granite gorges) and the Scandola peninsula. We saw osprey fishing, dolphins playing in the surf and hundreds of colourful fish. We swam in deep, warm ocean off the back of the boat, and were escorted in style by the glamour-captain fondly named by his crew ‘Mister Corse’ (say it with an Italian accent and you get the drift). His motto seemed to be “No Shirt, No Worries”, or perhaps “There’s no such things as a too-dark tan”.

All told, we had an incredible 5 days and wished it were longer. Our loop of the island took us to some amazing beaches, bushland, towns and villages. We’d go back in a heartbeat, and for longer. Even for Mike to swig some more Pietra (that chestnut-flour beer) and for me to jam in a little more of that stinky sheep’s cheese.

"The higlight"...our boat trip to Scandola
A friendly neighbourhood donkey encountered during a hike near Corte
Beautiful Bonifacio, a daredevil feat of a place, built precariously on a limestone clifftop
The "Red Rattler" train we took from Calvi (in the background) to Ile Rousse (and the azure water we took a dip in to recover!)

Fun on the Fragrant Isle remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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A voyage of Titanic proportions

2007-09-16T19:55:02Z

(Sountrack option: For full effect, start playing Celine Dion My Heart Will Go On immediately.)
It didn’t start off well. It was more than a little breezy when we boarded the SNCM ferry for our five-hour crossing from Nice to Ile Rousse in Northern Corsica. We became a bit more concerned when, even with our not-so-great French we managed to understand the announcement that told us we would have to sail to another port instead as the winds were too strong to get to our original destination. But it wasn’t until we left the relative shelter of Nice harbour we began to realise our predicament. It. Was. Rough. Waves smashed against the side of our vessel as we rolled and slithered about in the high seas. It may sound like I’m over-dramatising, but I kid you not. Approximately half the boat proceeded to chuck up their croissants and café cremes. We, thankfully, were spared the horrors of losing our lunch, but were seated next to a dapper-looking French chap who tore his way through the sick bags, hurling loudly, then proceeding to act as if nothing had happened. In a strange turn of events, he kept each sickbag on his lap like little trophies. Smelly ones. Mike, still recovering from The Big Race, managed to snooze in his seat, rocked to sleep by the tidal waves. I on the other hand gripped my chair with white knuckles and tried to block out the sound of vomiting by watching The Devil Wears Prada in French on one of the tiny TV screens. The glamorous Meryl Streep seemed oddly out of place aboard our Titanic-style ship.
Five hours later, we lurched in to a fetching little port called Calvi to the sound of rain beating on the ferry roof. Aah, summer holidays eh! Oh, and just to prove I wasn’t over-exaggerating the whole affair, our journey of doom actually made the newspapers, and they cancelled all other crossings for the rest of that day and all the next. See. (Stop Celine now before she bursts something).
The fateful ferry trip (before Mike drifted off to sleep and left me to deal with it alone)

A voyage of Titanic proportions remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Anyone for triathlon?

2007-09-16T20:10:28Z

Sunday 24th June. Ironman France. 3.8km swim. 180km bike ride. 42km run. 1500 competitors. If you’re thinking, “Geez, they could find 1500 people that actually volunteer to do that?” I don’t blame you. Still, triathlon is Michael’s passion and in the for-better-or-worse tradition, I supported him in his quest to get Ironman number five under his belt. Four a.m. was getting-up time. Four thirty was eating breakfast and drinking rocket-fuel coffee time. Four forty five was double-checking equipment and getting suited-up time. I remained supportive by lying in bed groaning and pulling pillows over my head. Then it was time to go. Pre-sunrise, the morning was perfectly still and you could feel the nervous energy emanating from of hundreds of super-fit (but potentially not quite of sound mind) endurance athletes zipping themselves into wetsuits, checking their bikes, making last-minute preparations. The starting gun broke the early stillness and they were off – the leaders would return in well over eight hours, while the tail-enders would cross the finish line seventeen hours later. Michael has written his own race report which he won’t let me add to the blog because he has gone all shy, but if you want to read about what it’s actually like to physically, and mentally, put yourself through an Ironman, let us know and we’ll forward it on. And as I simply stood on the sidelines cheering for almost 11 hours, my account is much less exciting and drama-filled. You’ll be glad to know that Mike did us all proud in Nice, with a finishing time of 10 hours, 55 minutes on a thirty-degree day, and he was still smiling at the end (or was that a grimace). And other than having to limp around for a week after, losing a few toenails, sustaining a couple of weeping welts on the back of his neck from wetsuit chaffing and having a really rather nasty case of sunburn, he pulled up very well. And what’s a few toenails between friends? So...any takers for next year?
After the swim (3.8km in...)
Heading out on the bike
Sunburn and neck welts and heat stroke, oh my!

Anyone for triathlon? remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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It’s so much nicer in Nice…

2007-09-16T20:12:23Z

Nearly three weeks in Nice. It sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? But it was true, although we did have to pinch ourselves a few times to make sure. The first ten or so days we stayed in a friend’s apartment with lovely big windows overlooking the port and hence, overlooking how the other half live. Wow. These weren’t simply boats. They were floating palaces – some chic and some, well, big. All day long, in and out they’d glide, flying the flags of Luxembourg, Monaco, Cayman Islands and other tax havens. Girls in bikinis lounging in the on-board roof-top jacuzzis, attentive crew busily washing decks and delivering drinks in their white polos and sharp chinos. We certainly weren’t in Kansas anymore, Toto. When we could tear ourselves away from this better-than-Neighbours soap opera occurring outside our front window, we explored the city and surrounds. The highlights? Touring a fragrance factory in perfume capital, Grasse (see, I was working, I swear!), swimming (fully clothed) among the nudies at Eze-sur-mer, a gorgeous, pebbly beach, discovering the cobbled streets of cute-as-a-button seaside town Villefranche, and roaming the narrow, winding passages of Nice’s atmospheric Old Town, or Vielle Ville. And the food…The French sure do know how to enjoy things when it comes to eating. Even a simple sandwich from a roadside kiosk to a takeaway salad from a servo is something of a gourmet delight. Fresh bread, good-quality butter, crunchy leaves and fresh vegetables made even our most basic meals memorable. We also sampled the local specialty, socca – a thick chickpea and olive oil savoury pancake. It became our snack of choice for that hungry time when it was too late for lunch and too early for dinner. Hard life. When we were sick of socca (yes it happens), and croissant-weary, we hit the fruit and veggie market in the town square. Every morning except Monday local producers display their wares on groaning trestle tables under brightly striped canopies. Plump, juicy red berries, ripe tomatoes, smelly sausages, even smellier cheeses, mountains of garlic and at least ten different types of potatoes all jostled for our attention, fringed by leafy herbs and zucchini flowers. And the beauty of our digs – a self-catering flat – meant we could cook with farm-fresh, dirt cheap ingredients nearly every night. We were totally giving Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsay (only with marginally less swearing or saying pukka and lovely-jubbly). Nearly two weeks and a few extra kilos later, we had to bid farewell to Nice apartment and commenced location in a city hotel, Le Meurice, in preparation for Mike’s big race – Ironman France. Finally, the bike, still tagging after us along like a bad smell, was to have it’s day in the sun. Speaking of sun, the temperature hovered between 25 and 30 degrees for our entire stay. Sorry. I’d like to say it was cold and miserable, or that the food was nasty, or that we stayed in a rat-infested hovel and had a really bad time, but everything was pretty much perfect. Oh, except the parking and the driving, but a promise is a promise, so my lips are sealed on that particular subject.

The fruit and veggie market
Lovely Eze village
The view from our flat...hard life!

It’s so much nicer in Nice… remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Car Trouble

2007-08-24T13:19:55Z

I think I’ve probably been banging on enough about driving in France. “Enough!”, I hear you wail. So, I’ll spare you the gory details. But let me just say this, before I press on with the interesting stuff. Nothing compares to navigating a car around Nice. Not only are the narrow roads packed, and traffic jams rife, the locals just park anywhere. Two, even three cars deep, on the median strip, underneath traffic light posts in the middle of intersections, anywhere they fancy. Scary when you first encounter the city, but after almost three weeks, more than slightly amusing. The whole thumbing of noses at authority was strangely refreshing. In fact, when it comes to road rules in Nice, it’s all very ‘laissez faire’. Coming from an area where parking inspectors arrive in mini-buses in the morning to slap fines on any vehicle remaining a few seconds too long in a space, we rather enjoyed this casual approach. Road works, omnipresent in France, also seem to be undertaken in Nice with this laid-back attitude. Lots of men standing around a small hole in the role chatting – obviously this requires the whole road to be blocked off, only increasing traffic-flow issues. But no one really seems to mind, and road rage is basically non-existent which, in the midst of all that craziness, is really rather nice and very sensible, too. Now, that’s it for my diatribes on French driving. Promise. And I think I ended it on quite a positive note really. Although having said that, the next time we go to Nice, we’ll most certainly be leaving the car behind…

Car Trouble remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Aged to perfection

2007-07-10T16:26:12Z

Another stressful day of driving almost behind us, we pulled into the outer suburbs of Besancon, a town in Eastern France close to the border. Michael went to uni here for a year, more time ago than he cares to remember, and fancied a little reckie to see if things had changed or were more or less the same as his student days, or should that be daze?
He did warn me that the suburb of Planoise where his lodgings were, left more than a little to be desired. However on arrival, and after a long and tiring day, things looked a bit worse than he remembered, and quite a lot worse than I had expected. We found his (gloomy) old street, funnily enough also named Rue de Champagne (no relation, I'm here to tell you), parked, and he walked me over to the shops where he used to buy groceries, get his haircut, things like that. The first thing I saw was the dodgy bar. No, actually the first thing I saw was all the cops hanging around on the streets, trying to break up gangs of youths. The second thing I saw was the dodgy bar. "Your local?" I asked, trying to look tough and brave, "No way", he replied, "we were way too scared to go in there". Least I wasn't the only one... After taking in the supermarket and the hair salon, which Mike was most disappointed to find was no longer called Monsieur Coiff, for what reason I know not with a fab name like that. Then someone threw an egg at us. No, I'm not lying or exaggerating, they really did. Then some people laughed at us, and then I told Mike in no uncertain terms that, darling, I am very glad to see the lovely place in which you spent your hopefully-not-formative year, but now can we please GO. FAST. RUN!
After scarpering back to the car, avoiding any more local produce, he insisted on showing me the actual town of Besancon, and his old haunts. With more than a little trepidation after the welcome we'd received at the last one, I rather bravely agreed. Which was a good thing as old Besancon is absolutely gorgeous and quintescentially French. Winding cobbled streets, beautiful fountains, elegant old buildings and churches and pedestrian streets packed with lush shops, bustling restaurants and chic bars. We spent a barmy evening wandering the streets, sampling Mike's favourite watering holes, and snacking on fresh French produce, including the area's famous runny cheese, Conquillotte. Maybe a year spent like this wouldn't be so bad after all.
We slept sound that night in an amazing old townhouse that had been converted into a chic French hotel - Charles Quint (www.charlesquint.com). The only thing that disturbed our repose was the chiming of churchbells from the cathedral outside our window. Just another pinch-me-I'm-not-dreaming moment.
Mike has since threatened that if I misbehave on the rest of the trip, he will put me straight on the bus to Planoise. Needless to say, I've been the perfect travelling companion ever since.

The other Rue de Champagne!

The beautiful Besancon square

Aged to perfection remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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An Aix-Rated Stopover

2007-07-10T16:25:07Z

So far on this trip , there are many things I would recommend. One I would not, is arriving in a bustling centre at 5.30 on a sunny, Friday evening. After covering over 500km on the brilliant motorway between Besancon and Provence, we decided to call it a day and find somewhere to sleep. I saw 'Aix-en-Provence' marked on the map, and, on consultation with our travel bible, France Rough Guide, we pulled off the A7 and into, well, lots and lots of traffic. Chanting our mantra, 'Make for the Tourist Bureau', 'Make for the Tourist Bureau', we snaked our way around the obligatory roundabouts and headed for city centre. Unfortunately, we sailed past our beacon of hope, the Tourist Bureau, at one rather large roundabout, so took the next exit instead, right into a pedestrian mall, full of tables, postcard stands, and of course, pedestrians. Oops. But there was no way out and as we inched forward the street narrowed alarmingly . None of the pedestrians seemed alarmed, however, wandering in our path in their hundreds. They may have been pointing and laughing but I wouldn't know as I had hidden my head under the dashboard, helpfully yelling expletives (the aix-rated part, sorry to disappoint you). I am seriously the best and most valuable navigator - a rally team should totally think about hiring me. So useful, if just for entertainment value alone. Sadly, all good things must come to an end and we finally made it out the other end on to an actual road, and found an actual multi-story car park. Hooray! And after the first few tries, we found an actual hotel that wasn't completely full or foul. Patting ourselves on the back, we enjoyed a gorgeous night in Aix. A university town, it was teeming with chic and well-dressed students, streaming from bars, restaurants and shops, ready to enjoy the balmy summer evening, the bubbling of the many spectacular fountains as the soundtrack. Without much time for sightseeing, we contented ourselves with a leisurely stroll around the beautiful old town, then ate with the locals at an outdoor restaurant.
Next morning, we took the correct exit at the roundabout. No dramas. Told you I was an expert navigator.

An Aix-Rated Stopover remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Champange, anyone?

2007-06-24T08:42:00Z

If you know me, you'll know I have a weakness for champagne. OK, maybe its more than that. More a when-I-tell-my-husband-I-love-him-and-he-says-"What, more than Champagne"-ness. Surfice to say, I had come on my pilgrimage and I had made it - to Epernay, the capital of champagne. We stayed in a to-die little bed and breakfast on, naturally, Rue de Champagne. Next door was Esterlin, across the road, Perrier Jouet, next to that, Pol Roger and down on the corner, Moet & Chandon. So we were in the thick of it. We were welcomed to our little haven by the Rimaires,a French couple who run the b&b with a bottle of their home-brand champagne (made carefully by their neighbours, the Moets & Chandons of course). Called Parva Domus, you simply must stay there if you ever have the pleasure of visiting the region (www.parvadomusrimaire.com), it's heaven, and even though they speak no word of English and my french is rusty, and that's being tres kind, it was just gorge. Our 2 days there passed in a whirlwind of champagne tastings, cellar tours, gourmet dinners, more champagne tastings, and needless to say, that's about all we remember. We went from tiny cellar doors in the country, where we got some great bargains, to the grandeur of Moet & Chandon. We even managed to learn things, like what Cru means (the villages that grow champagne grapes), what mix goes into Moet's famous Brut Imperiale (Chardonnay, Pinot Noir and Meunier grapes), even how they get those bulbous corks into those small bottle necks (air pressue machine, very impressive machine). We were so sad to leave and both agreed we'd love to come back to this charming town where French bubbles flow freely and it ok, hell, expected, that you've had at least a couple of glasses before midday. Now that's my kinda place. Cheers, a votre sante!

Parva Domus
When Michael met Dom...
In the cellar with the good stuff
Another tasting

Champange, anyone? remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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A merde of a day

2007-06-24T08:05:46Z

Let me preface this blog by saying, there are so many things I adore about France. The food, the wine, the countryside, the cities...it truly is a magical place. Well, most of it is. The same just cannot be said for driving en France. Excited to be on the road again, we rolled onto the NorfolkLine ferry at Dover for a smooth and seasick-free transfer to Dunkerque (if you're making this trip, Norfolkline is amazing, easy on the wallet and really nice on board). On board we procured all sorts of useful things required by law to drive in France. Things like first aid kits, red triangle thingies that have lights on that you put on the roadside if you break down (this doesn't work for mental breakdowns unfortunately, I know because I had lots), a GB sticker for our car (yes, compulsory, not simply patriotic), even special stickery things you adhere to your headlights so your British car doesn't dazzle those poor French drivers. Phew. After spending a good portion of our daily budget on "car things" we felt sure nothing could daunt us when we hit the French roads. Forgetting a few minor things of course like, well, driving on the other side of the road for example. Yes, that little matter of keeping right. Especially challenging on roundabouts. Which brings me to my next point. There must have been a sale on roundabouts when France was making its roads as they are literally everywhere, with the most bizarrely and unhelpfully positioned road signs attached. At least we had a fair bit of practice negotiation these in there hundreds. Then of course the small matter of the speed limit - a mere 130kms an hour which, might I add is not exactly adhered to. With a little Corolla stuffed full of huge suitcases, two rather heavy humans, a bike, and all our safe-driving-in-France paraphenalia, 130 was a tad of a stretch - the poor little thing vibrating like a washing machine on spin cycle while thousands of Renault Meganes and Audis zoomed past furiously.
Let's not forget the lorries. Billions of them it would seem, which meant we got very good at overtaking very quickly - even if I did have to adopt the emergency brace position when we did (don't worry, at least I wasn't driving). Ooh, I'm leaving out the bit about roadworks in France. Just block of the whole street, go on, nobody will need the main road in town today, or the next week perhaps, who cares if it's the street their hotel is on? They'll find another one. Oh, and how about driving into a quaint little town with ribbon-thin cobbled streets at peak hour while still remembering to drive on the right, avoid pedestrians, go through a few hundred more roundabouts, the usual. Now...where was the part about being on holidays being easy and carefree? Hmm?
Eleven and a half - yes count them - eleven and a half hours later, we made it to our destination. Sure, we weren't speaking to eachother, we were both drenched in sweat and we'd been well and truly lost a good 3 or 4 times, but we made it to Epernay, capital of the Champagne region. And where better to celebrate?

Aaagh, another blockage!

A merde of a day remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Horses and gypsies and booze, oh my!

2007-06-04T11:08:49Z

I love horse racing. The super-groomed thoroughbreds, the thundering of their hooves, their speed. The bright colours of the jockies' silks, and the hats and dresses in the crowd. The top hats, the buttonholes, the old fashioned traditions and the fact you can drink champagne at 10am without anyone blinking an eye, rather joining in on the festivities. So, when I realised I was in Surrey on the day of the world famous Derby at Epsom Downs, only a few stops away on the local train, I got excited. But since I hadn't packed a floaty frock and sharp straw trilby for obvious reasons, I decided to join the ranks on the other side of the tracks. Epsom is one of the few racing venues in the world where the public can attend for free, get up against the railings, and have pretty much the same view of the fillies as the Queen does from her royal balcony opposite. Pretty amazing really. I wanted in. Over 100,000 people who shared my love of the old-fashioned sport of horse racing? Bring it. Here are a few things I hadn't considered, however:
1. While I arrived around 3pm, most folks had been there since the crack of dawn staking out their pozzie, some with blankets, the more organised with marquees, one group of ladies going so far as to decorate their marquee with floor rug, seating, an oil painting of roses for the wall and even a brass candellabra.
2. The drink of choice was vodka. Not with a mixer or even a cube of ice...oh no. Neat. From the bottle.
3. It was a 24 degree day, after a week of near-freezing temperatures. Why would you wear a top when you needn't? In fact, why would you need to wear practically any clothes at all?
4. If you can make some money at the same time, brill! Not by betting on the races, mind, but by selling an array of bizzare things not usually needed at the track. Things like, say, manilla envelopes in a range of sizes, a set of steak knives, a 2m glass coffee table with faux-greek pillars for legs, a cut-glass fruit bowl or perhaps some perfume?
5. Sick of watching the ponies? Why not engage in some bare-knuckle fighting for fun? Or take a ride on a rollercoaster where you can sick up your battered sav?

Needless to say, I was stunned, amused, enchanted and a little bit terrified all at once. Apparently the gypsies come from all over the country for the races and stay on site for a few days. They set up their stalls, a fun fair, their caravans and make a weekend out of it. Having never really seen gypsies, it was pretty exciting. Boy, do they party hard, though. I was more than a little relieved to make it safely back on the train and get home in one piece. Oh, and I now see where those Little Brittain guys got the material for Vicky Pollard, and where Catherine Tate gets her info, too. But what I loved best about this bizarro day out, was that, across the track from the complete madness that was going on in the centre, the Queen and her entourage, plus London high society ( who arrived throughout the afternoon via chopper) were watching the same races, sharing the same spirit, though perhaps in slightly different conditions. And when it came time for the Derby, I was pressed up against the railings, watching those horses thunder past with 100,000 other fans. And what could be better than that?

Horses and gypsies and booze, oh my! remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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On Salisbury Plain

2007-06-01T18:47:02Z

Today, I saw Stonehenge. Not by going there and paying and wandering around it. Simply driving past on the motorway. There it was, in all it's grey, stony splendor. So dramatic. I was blown away by how eerie and bizarre it is, just sitting there in the middle of a paddock, next to a busy main road. Apparently the stones come from riverbeds miles and miles away from the site on the Salisbury plains. And they're huge and on top of eachother. Now, I know I'm not telling you anything you don't know, but just seeing it there made me so curious. "How did it get there?" I asked. "How did they do it?" and "Why is it here, in the middle of nowhere?". But that's the thing about mysteries isn't it. There are no answers. That's the point of them.
If you drove along a motorway in rural Australia, you'd see the Giant Prawn, or the Big Banana. Not quite so mysterious I should think. Ah, the joys of travel!

On Salisbury Plain remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Why England is green...

2007-06-01T18:39:45Z

Ah, Somerset. What a lovely place. Lovely, but not at all to be confused with Summer-set. Oh, no no no.
We made like Londoners and left the big smoke for a bank holiday weekend in the English countryside. We braved the 5pm Friday night traffic, hurtling down the motorway amongst green hills, verdant hedges and fields of flowers. "It's so lovely and green" I remarked. Our driver, the local, just laughed. "What's funny?" I asked. He muttered something about how did I think it got so nice and green. Whatever. Nothing could spoil my Friday-afternoon-weekend-in-the-country buzz.
Saturday morning, I awoke to crisp, fresh air and was glad I'd grabbed my coat on the way to breakfast (where I stuffed myself silly with the Full English - eggs, bacon, sausages, etc...). To burn off the calories, I decided on a ramble through the countryside. In Australia, I would have simply gone for a walk, but as I was in England, just a hop, skip and jump from the film location of Sense and Sensibility, a ramble it was. [It should be noted at this point that Michael was competing in a super-strenuous 3-day bike race called The Tour of Wessex so I was rambling solo].
Over stiles I went. Through paddocks, past ponies, over streams, across overgrown fields, in and out of tiny stone-walled villages. There were houses with roses round the doors, thatched-roof cottages and old barns full of mooing cows being milked. Someone was baking gingerbread and the scent wafted out the open windows, combining with wet grass, spring blossom and the ever-present whiff of manure for the most amazing Eau de English Countryside. I had to pinch my arm to remind myself it was 2007 and I wasn't the heroine from a Jane Austen novel. Frankly I wouldn't have been surprised if I'd started scribbling down poetry in a journal and saying things like "Good morning sir, and what a fair day it is for a ramble. I do so love a ramble, don't you?" while dipping into a curtsey. Luckily, before I regressed back into hoop skirts and a bonnet, the wind changed. Suddenly the sky was full of black clouds. Ominous. Crows flew overhead, cawing menacingly. Now I was up to the part of the Jane Austen novel when the hero gallops up on a horse, flings me over the saddle, and escorts me to the saftey of his country mannor for hot tea in front of the fire so I don't catch pneumonia and have to spend the next week in his guest room. Unfortunately my hero was somewhere south of the Piddle valley (no, not a joke) on a bike rather than a trusty steed. So I did what any self-respecting Austen girl would do, rolled up my trousers and plodded home. Suddenly it was freezing and I was cross and far from home. After plodding for about an hour, I could see my destination, The Walnut Tree Hotel. Only problem was, I had to walk down a very narrow path and over a stile to get there and between me and the stile was a very large cow. We stared at each other. I stepped forward. It stepped forward. I stopped and waited for a tumbleweed to blow past and to hear the strains of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly theme. This bizarre waltz, which must have looked tres comical to an ousider, continued for about five minutes until I decided I'd had enough and was not going to be intimidated by this giant bovine any longer. After a small scuffle, it rushed past me, moooing angrily, and I was able to continue on my way. So dramatic for a Saturday morning. I arrived back at the hotel exhausted from my exertions. The rain continued through the evening and all the next day. "So that's why it's so green" I thought to myself as it pitter-pattered down and the temperature plumetted to a mere 6 degrees. This is supposed to be Spring, people! The next day, I put on my woolly socks and watched bad sitcoms on Sky TV. Wonder what Jane would have done?

Why England is green... remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Ooh la la!

2007-05-27T12:32:29Z

Some days are ok, some days are pretty good, and some days you get that "pinch-me-so-I-know-I'm-not-dreaming" sensation. My four days in Paris with the girls - Susie and Tory - were most definitely those of the latter. Leaving Michael back in London, we jumped on the Eurostar and headed for the City of Light for a feast of great weather (we even managed to get sunburnt), beautiful food, amazing hotels and shopping, shopping, shopping. Well, they shopped, I drooled. The French have a great expression, "faire du leche vitrine" which describes window shopping, but literally means "to lick the windows". Now I completely understand why they invented it, and why Paris is the fashion capital of the world. And while the girls flexed the 'mex in Dior, Paul & Joe, Marc Jacobs, Chloe...I just enjoyed strolling around those gorgeous streets, stepping in to those beautiful old buildings and lapping up the culture of the place. We did tres French things like eating steak frites in little bistros at 10pm, nibbling delicate pastries at famous teahouse Laduree, sipping Rose and Kir and Evian, even attending a fashion showing. We also did super-touristy things like taking a bateau mouche up the Seine at sunset, scouring Galleries Lafayette and having our photo taken on Pont des Artes, in Tuilleries gardens, in front of the Louvre, sitting at cafes, basically anywhere we could find someone to ask. And it was all amazing. Paris truly is one of those cities you just have to go to, and after you've been, you just want to return again and again. It's stylish, chic, in-your-face beautiful. And I can't wait to get back there again in August. Ooh la la, la la.
The rooftops of Paris
The famous Laduree Patisserie Tory and me, outshone by Place de la Concorde A Parisian evening

Ooh la la! remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The joys of jet lag

2007-05-19T12:02:11Z

Have you watched "The Secret"? If so, you'll know that you're s'posed to keep a 'Grateful Diary'. That is, at the end of each day, even if it's been, um, trying, shall we say, you write down a whole list of all the things you're thankful for. The premise being, the universe hears you being all warm and fuzzy and positive etc and rewards you in wonderful ways. OK, so maybe you shouldn't take my (crazed and jet lagged) word for it and perhaps you should check it out yourself but call that the abridged version. Well, anyway, here's my list for the day, or is it night, my body can't decide. Enjoy! Love you miss you mean it.

Emily's Grateful Diary, 19/05/2007
1. I am grateful that, despite 80.5 kilos of luggage (and yes, admittedly 5 kgs of toiletries) including a racing bike, we made it to the other side of the world without paying a cent of excess baggage through the powers of negotiation, thinking positively and smiling nicely

2. I am grateful that said bike shall not be making another airline journey with us as husband has promised bike will be sent home unchapperoned, immediately after big, important Triathlon in France to which, and I'm also grateful here, we shall be driving a car with a big boot and will no longer need to be judged under the stony stares of airport check-in desk ladies

3. I am grateful that I woke up at 4am this morning, instead of the predicted 2.30am - the time I thought the jet lag would strike

4. I am grateful that Michael was struck by jet lag at the same time as me, so was available to peel oranges, make tea and generally be nice to jetlagged self

5. I am grateful, and this is perhaps slightly selfish here, that Michael has also been struck by my Hong Kong Fluey, although his is more a London one, so he can now appreciate that all that whingeing I did about how sick I was was actually real, not in any way fabricated or generated merely for sympathy vote

6. I am grateful that, even though I might say selfish things as highlighted above, Michael knows I'm (nearly always) joking

7. Finally I'm greatful that we're in beautiful Purley, in Surrey, where there are girls on ponies, boys playing cricket in bright green fields, box hedges down the roads, birds singing, flowers blooming, and life is generally all happy and picture book-y (even though I was awake at 4am - lets try for 5am tomorrow)

The joys of jet lag remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Hong Kong Fluey

2007-05-27T10:20:30Z

Plastic bowls full of live fish, flipping and splashing. Beef carcasses hanging from hooks, chickens being plucked, mounds of bok choy, bananas and mango. Red paper lanterns, bright parasols, and someone's washing hanging off a piece of string looped across the road. And the smell. It's a humid-hot scent, peppered with over-ripe fruit, spices, car fumes and the sea. I'm standing on Peel Street, Central Hong Kong, one of the last remaining street markets where locals can come to buy their food. The colours, sounds, and scents are almost overpowering, and not a bit like my local Woolies. There are men with no teeth, tiny, frail old ladies carrying loads almost larger than themselves, fruit vendors, butchers, cooks and someone selling weather-weary flowers. Then turn around and a few steps down the road is the Two IFC Tower, a mammoth structure that's 417 metres tall, and resembles, I think, a giant electric razor. That's Hong Kong. It's crazy yet chic, crowded yet friendly, modern yet old-fashioned. A city of contrasts. A new building is under construction, rumoured to be the tallest in the city, which will apparently stand at 437 metres when complete. They're building it with bamboo poles for scaffolding. Of course they are.
We both love it here, even though I've developed a shocking cold-type illness which plagues me the entire stay. Although we only spend two whirlwind days in this amazing city, we see enough to make us want to come back again and again. Oh, and the shopping, ladies, is amazing. A Louis Vuitton on every second corner, Zara, Marks and Spencer, Harvey Nicks, Stella McCartney, Dior, Chanel, names, names, names, sweetie! Unforunately I cannot partake as I am under strict six-months-without-pay shopping restrictions, but I salivate in front on the windows and make plans to jump on a plane when the sales are on here one day.
A real highlight is a sailing trip on a junk on the harbour at dusk, as the sun is setting and all the lights start twinkling on in the city. Sipping wine, chilling out to Cafe del Mar beats, and watching the spectacle unfold is goose bump-enducing. Great Chinese food, trawling through markets and admiring the beautiful trees and parklands (Hong Kong is over 40% parkland) also make the stay special. But the best part? Call me crazy (and yes, Michael did), but as a public transport quality controller from way back, I have to say, the system in this fast and furious metropolis is beyond. Totally in a good way. Especially, and this was the best bit of the best part, the Octopus card. Like a credit card you buy, swipe on anything from trains to trams, busses and ferries, and that's it. Add money when you need to. If you're lucky enough to be heading here sometime soon, get one. It's like, so fun!
Until next time, London calling...

Hong Kong Fluey remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Men love me, fish fear me

2007-05-19T10:56:07Z

You'll all be pleased to know that we are not still sitting in the departure lounge of Qantas Domestic Airport. Oh no. A mere twelve hours later, we landed in sunny Perth, hopped on the ferry and arrived at Rottnest Island. For those of you uninitiated, it's a sweet little spot about half an hour from Fremantle by fast boat. It's been inhabited by aboriginals, used as a penal colony, played a military role in World Wars One and Two, but now is purely for lucky visitors like us who get to lap up the great weather, beautiful beaches and lack of cars (they're not allowed). It's also the official home of the Quokka - a small, hoppy marsupial a bit like a tiny kangaroo or a possum on springs - which populate the island and aren't at all scary, although one did try to break into our house and my brave husband had to sweep it out with a broom. So manly!
Michael spent the week training for his triathlon in France with frequent and fierce sessions of swimming, cycling and running, with a little sea kayaking for a break. Hah. I, on the other hand, read a trashy book, slept, drank champagne and, when all those girly, glamorous holiday things wore a tad thin, I went fishing. Now, I know this is more than a slight departure from my usual profession of prescribing lipsticks, wrinkle cream and hair gel to devoted marie claire readers, however as the saying goes, "a change is as good as a holiday", and as I was already on holiday, it should have been extra good. And it was. There is something tres caveman-chic about catching one's own dinner - I'd like to think more Racquel Welch in One Million Years BC in that cute little fur bikini than actual neanderthal man, however. Anyway, I was good at it, and most evenings Dad and I could be found covered in fish guts out on the rocks overlooking Geordie Bay. Plus, fish oil is tres anti-ageing so it was a nice beauty tie-in, too.
After a week of living simply in shorts, bikini and bare feet, with fresh fish and lobster for dinner every night, it was hard to get back on the boat to wave farewell to Rottnest (especially since the sea was quite rough that day), but Hong Kong was calling, and who were we to argue with the travel gods. So it was "Seeya Layda" from Rotto and "Jo San" (or Hello in Cantonese) to the fragrant harbour.

Men love me, fish fear me remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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False Start

2007-05-19T11:35:42Z

In the word of Edina Monsoon, of Absolutely Fabulous fame, "It's hardly a hiccup, sweetie, more like a giant belch with a little bit of sick in it". And that's how Day One of TOL seems to be shaping up.
D1 started well enough: we managed to jam our lives into our three small(ish) bags, wrestle Michael's bike into a really rather giant cardboard box and squeeze into a maxi taxi bound for Sydney airport. First stop, Perth! Wrong...first stop, the check in counter, where I was politely informed that my luggage was "over". While I smiled sweetly and tried to will my suitcase to look light, Mike muttered something about backpacking and how I clearly wasn't cut out for it. Which, I might add, is precisely why I didn't buy a backpack in the first place - much too constricting. After I extracted my toiletry bag (which embarassingly weighed five kilos), and stashed it in one of the sensible packer's sensible sized bags, we were through. But before our sighs of relief were fully exhaled, the plane broke. I've heard these stories on the news and thought, "Poor suckers, glad that wasn't me". Well, now it quite clearly was me, and no amount of complimentary gin and tonic was going to change that. So, as you wait with bated breath for news of travel adventures, amazing scenery and gourmet delights, all I can give you is what the inside of the Qantas Club looks like - beige - what the airport food is like - bland - and what it's like to be perched patiently in Terminal Two, with a minimum four hour wait ahead, the only reward being to board a potentially busted aircraft for a five hour flight - no need for elaboration there.
What's a little hydraulic fluid leaking from the fourth engine between friends anyway?
...until next time, when hopefully we will have at least left the state...

False Start remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The storm before the calm

2007-05-19T11:36:09Z

Cardboard boxes, garbage bags, half-empty bottles of shampoo, tomato sauce, wine... OK, maybe not so many half-empty bottles of wine, they are mostly all empty. You'd be forgiven for thinking it's a ghetto or slum we've stumbled upon on our travels. But, no - it's our once-pristine Paddington apartment.
Our departure for the Trip Of a Lifetime (hearafter referred to as TOL) is in four days and counting. The removalists show up in just under 36 hours and we're in utter chaos. Suddenly TOL seems a frivilous and downright ridiculous idea. We have too many beauty products for one thing. We need to rehome our potplants and adopt out our car. We need to cram five years worth of Sydney life into a storage unit that's smaller than our bathroom. Do we make it? Do Emily and Michael foil the troublesome Packing Gods, pack their suitcases sensibly and make it to the airport on time? Stay tuned...

Completely random yet utterly sublime holiday moment: Waking up on Monday morning before the alarm and realising it's not even set, that I don't need to do the hour-long comute to the office, that it doesn't matter that I can't be bothered to wash my hair today. Because I'm not going to work today. I'm not going for six whole months.

The storm before the calm remains copyright of the author millie t, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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